Something in the Way
by SeasonVelvet
Summary: Draco ponders in class, darkly obsessed with Hermione.


Listen to this as you read, as the story was written listening to this, and only this: .com/watch?v=rg-yYi8saZY&feature=related

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**S****omething in the Way**

His eyes slid over to her from across the room, gliding over and past obscuring chairs, tables, the backs of other students, in his quest for her. His shoulders rose like two ice peaks as he contemplated her, lured forward by her magnetism, the rest of his torso seeming to cave inwards on itself in a shadow out of insignificance, all his thought for her.

The dark of his eyes dilated, engorged as with a feast of sight, the lids falling slightly like a drunkard in a rain of wine . . . though they were not quite half mast, and much too aware. His body unconsciously singing his predation, the lust radiating off him in hot waves.

His partner glanced over at him skittishly out of the corner of their eye, not daring to fidget but wanting to badly. Draco smiled inwardly, taking in the sick pleasure of his partners' rabbit-like disposition, knowing that he caused his nervousness and . . . Draco spared a look at the boy . . . was that _arousal_? He allowed himself a full smirk this time, his head revolving leisurely back to Granger, and the boy shuffled in his seat, eyes still skittish. Must be something in the air today. He could feel it in the classroom.

His gaze slithered down her form, increasing his delight and appetite before daring to latch on to the pinnacle of her.

No, no, not her ankles. Bum? _Ass?_ Intoxicatingly soft, round and gentle, but no. What, then, her breasts? He had fantasized them into being particle by particle in his mind, but they were difficult to distinguish under robes, and she worn muggle clothing scarcely.

She had the day she tattooed the imprint of her hand to his cheek, an angry Indian red against his stony, Settler white.

Who would win _this_ war? The Good Indians, fighting with cupids' bows and arrows of love and light, heeding the spirits of the forest and _all the colors of the _fucking _wind_? How eternally amusing, the Light, they never failed to give a good laugh at least. Or maybe the Bad Settlers, fighting with unforgiving guns and hearts of steel, greedy for what's _mine, mine, mine_?

Savages, savages. Barely even human.

. . . But who? Hermione, the mudblood wench (brilliant, compassionate witch)? Draco, the pureplood prince (selfish, cowardly wizard)?

What is her midsection, perhaps? Unfortunately no, he had not yet the joy of seeing any expanse of skin; being the little priggish prude she was. Save for the line of her neck, the startling rise of tendon as she turned to look this way or that; in a moment of exhilaration as she stretched her hand to touch the sky as she reached academic heights, the flutter of her hand and absolute buzzing of her entire body, from the tips of her hair all the way down to her toes, asking, no, _begging_, to be chosen -- too agonizing for any teacher to ignore for long. Even Snape relented.

Draco visualized her scholarly ways as bibliophilistic in the worst (best) way. The subjugating of herself as she knelt before the altar of knowledge, basking wantonly in the ecstasies of a teacher's praise, whoring herself before the class, writhing and moaning as they shoot answers back like a giant cock, the cock of the educational administration spurting cum all over her pretty face and down her breasts, and she takes it all, wanting more.

Instead of a red light she has a red check mark. Impregnated with ideas and information to birth a child of revolutionary genius. He suspects S.P.E.W. is only the beginning. He also knows he is not the only one to take notice of her, like this. It is in the slight unease of the class, the nervous energy, the way they look down and away when she speaks, not wishing to see, saving her from a scene she doesn't know she is causing. The way Potter and Weasley sometimes touch her shoulder embarrassedly, tentatively, suggesting in quiet, subtle tones that she, "just maybe tone it down a little". Her shoulders slump after one of these, her face innocently confused and wounded; not understanding but hurt nonetheless by this mysterious reprimand. She will strive to remain invisible for the rest of the class, hunkered down and unhappy, to then turn and beam proudly at her friends when class is over and she has passed the test. They give her small smiles in return, maybe one throwing and arm around her shoulder, neither mentioning it further. Or otherwise she becomes angry and indignant; snubbing them and the class with a stiff back and resolute neck, hand raised, pinched and determined lips.

He envies their relationship. Wonders if they have ever touched in the dead of night, the creak of a door being conspicuously opened, little telling footfalls making their way across a room, the springy dip of a mattress and the rustle of covers as they open and welcome without question, a hand sneaking over to the wrong side, illicit caresses and surprised gasps, all fueled with love.

Probably not.

-- Her face. It was her face. The pinnacle of her. And as she smiles to herself down to the pages her notebook, her mind utterly in the present and yet miles away, he thinks that really she is an angel, and that maybe he's made up all of those so-called observations about her, about them all.

He does not notice that class has ended until a body blocks his view, and it is fuzzy until he refocuses on the closer object. Bumbling buffoon Ron Weasley. He glances quickly around the bustle, noting the level of readiness to leave as others slip books and papers into their knap-sacks, before doing the same.

He stalks out through the mass into the fresh freedom of the wide hallway, the evidence of summer in the featherlike light draping the walls and floor, in the decided lack of winter burdens, and it succeeds only in depressing him. Like walking out of a theatre, having been alone and cocooned safely in the darkness of a dream only to then be faced with the glare of day, the unyielding reality of it, and you aren't prepared. You think if other people look at you they'll know, they'll see you; know what, and see what, you aren't sure, as you squint out into the street.

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My regards, I hope you enjoyed it.


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